Bound by lies, Trapped by Desire - Chapter 87: Chapter 87

Elena’s POV:
I sat on the edge of the couch, breath shallow, spine ramrod straight as I tried—truly tried—to pull myself together.
My hands curled into fists on my lap, nails biting into my skin.
Then Sergei’s voice cut in like a blade slicing through fog.
“You shouldn’t be feeling this way over a man like that.” His tone was light, almost mocking, like he couldn’t believe I was even upset. “I could find at least a dozen men—each one ten times more manly and capable than him—for you.”
My head snapped up, a scoff punching out of me before I could hold it back.
Was he serious?
He said it like he was offering me a new coat. Something to wear and throw away when it no longer suited me. He didn’t understand. Couldn’t understand. Nikolai wasn’t just a man I’d happened to fuck, or love, or hate. He was mine. He had cracked open something inside me that would never be stitched back together the same way again. Not even Dmitri’s betrayal had hit this hard for me.
My voice was cold. “No, thanks. I’d rather appreciate it if you got out of my home.”
Before Sergei could respond, my mother spoke softly. “Elena. Wait. Let’s at least listen to what this man has to say.”
I turned my head to her sharply, eyes wide. Was she serious? Her? The same woman who nearly tore Nikolai apart an hour ago for putting me through hell? Now she wanted to listen to Sergei fucking Morozov?
She didn’t know. Of course she didn’t.
She probably hadn’t even connected the name Morozov to the reason our house had gone into debt. To the sharp-suited loan sharks who showed up like ghosts on our doorstep. Maybe she forgot, or maybe she just never realized the man standing here was at the root of that darkness. He looked too polished, too wealthy, too untouchable to be the one who ruined us.
I clenched my jaw and turned my glare back on Sergei.
“Why did you come here now?” I asked, voice flat. “Why now, after all this time? Why did you send me to an orphanage in the first place?”
He didn’t blink. He didn’t even look remotely surprised by my question. Just tilted his head toward the bodyguard standing stone-faced in the corner and then smoothed his coat lapels with an exhale.
“Truthfully,” he began, voice calm, businesslike, “I was told you died in a miscarriage. Right before birth. I hadn’t even held you. Which was why I didn’t believe Nikolai when he first showed me that picture. I thought it was a scam. A setup. I’ve dealt with dozens like it before.”
My fingers tightened around the fabric of the cushion beside me, heart stuttering.
“Then what made you realize it wasn’t a fake?” my mother asked beside me, voice brittle.
Sergei let out a slow grunt, as if the memory irritated him. “It’s common for people to try and blackmail me with children they claim are mine. But Nikolai…” He paused, jaw tightening slightly. “He’s not the type to waste time with nonsense. So I got curious. Suspicious, really. I went back through the hospital records from that time. Had my people dig deep. And we found something.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Like what?”
“Someone switched the records of two children.”
My brow furrowed. I leaned forward slightly, blood roaring in my ears. “You’re saying I was switched at birth?”
Sergei nodded slowly. “That’s the essence of it, yes.”
I stared at him, stunned.
My voice was rough. “What else is there?”
He exhaled. “Nothing. That’s it. That was the reason… my wife descended into depression. And soon after…”
He trailed off.
I could barely feel my legs. My skin felt cold, pulled tight over my bones. My chest ached like something was caving in from the inside.
“Committed suicide?” I asked quietly.
Sergei went still.
His entire posture changed. His shoulders stiffened, his lips pressing into a thin, hard line. When he turned to me, his gaze was sharp, almost furious.
“Who told you that?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.
A chill swept down my spine, slow and creeping. But I didn’t back down.
“Isn’t that what happened?” I challenged. “Who even was my mother? How did she actually die?”
He rubbed his forehead like the conversation physically pained him. “Your mother was Anaya Malik. An immigrant from the Middle East.”
My eyes widened. “My mother was Arab?”
“Her origins are… complicated,” he said, finally dropping his hand from his brow. “She was half Pakistani, half Saudi Arabian. Born and raised in Dubai. Her parents arranged a marriage for her with a local businessman there. A man twice her age.”
My stomach turned.
I didn’t want to ask. But I had to.
“Was it forced?”
Sergei met my gaze. “To them? No. To them it was ‘arranged’. The daughter didn’t have a choice, and refusing would bring dishonor to the family. Anaya was educated. Independent. Smart. She had a modest dowry of her own. So she ran.”
“Ran?” I echoed.
He nodded. “She fled the UAE. Took a flight here. Back then, the laws for asylum seekers were more lenient. She filed for temporary residence under a protection clause.”
A part of me wanted to cry for her already.
I asked the question I didn’t want answered. “How old was she?”
Sergei didn’t blink. “When she arrived here? She was sixteen.”
I stared at him, a horror I couldn’t contain rising in my throat.
“You married a child?” I spat, my voice breaking.
He looked at me like I’d just insulted his lineage. “That was nearly three decades ago, Elena. Besides, I didn’t marry her when she was sixteen. I found her three years later—she was nineteen by then. That’s when I married her.”
I didn’t believe him. Or maybe I didn’t want to believe him. Everything about this story made my skin crawl.
“You found her?” I said sharply. “She was lost?”
He hesitated. “The three years she spent here weren’t pleasant….She lived in a shelter for a while. Later she moved to a shared apartment with some other immigrants, but the system failed her. She couldn’t find stable work. She was constantly being threatened with deportation. And yes… she was already in a depressive spiral by then.”
The words felt like ash in my mouth. “And then?”
“When I found her, she was…” He sighed, looking down at his hands like they might give him the strength to continue. “She was already addicted to prescription opiates. Sleeping pills, painkillers, whatever she could get. She’d been using them to cope. She stopped briefly when she found out she was pregnant. She tried to stay clean. For the baby.”
He looked at me then, and something shifted in his eyes.
“She tried for you.”
I swallowed.
“And after the miscarriage?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the wall behind me, his gaze distant and glazed.
“She relapsed,” he said quietly. “Hard. Refused therapy. Locked herself in her room for days. I tried… I tried everything. And then one night, I came home and found her on the bathroom floor. She was gone.”
My stomach twisted, bile rising in my throat.
“She overdosed?” I whispered.
His eyes met mine again. And this time, they didn’t hide.
He nodded.
The room was silent.
Silent except for the sound of my heart breaking.
Because it was the same story, wasn’t it?
Nikolai’s mother. Now mine. Different names, different faces, but the same ending.